Clopin's Angel of Night
by Clopin K. Trouillefou
Summary: Clopin finds himself rescued by a female that isn't human. Before long they fall for each other, but what happens when she dscovers the truth about him? HoNDGargoyles crossover, takes place after the Disney movie. ClopinDemona pairin
1. Dark Savior

-1A dark form landed on the majestic form of Notre Dame cathedral towering over the sleeping city of Paris. The light of the moon illuminated the figure's wild red hair and bluish skin as outspread wings folded themselves around a lithe, athletic female form. She lifted a clawed foot and rested it on the balustrade of the walkway between the two bell towers. Resting her arms on her elevated leg, she gazed out over the city, pondering her circumstances and the pitiful humans that dwelt here. She was sought, hunted, by two entities: one a human she'd once called an ally, the other a human known as the Hunter. She was more concerned with the Hunter, a vendetta passed down generation to generation since the 11th century. The incident leading to the Hunter occurred around the same time she'd become allied to the other human that pursued her, a man that had given her a name: Demona. He'd bestowed it upon her to honor her prowess in the battle that had allied the two, the battle that had made her former friend King of Scotland. It was a name that suited her well, in her battle skills and her deep loathing for the vermin that was humanity.

Humans had destroyed her clan, placed the six surviving members under a spell and left her alone to endure the centuries. Humans had destroyed her last small clan and betrayed her, hunted her, and drove her from one place to another to survive. She had been swallowed by her hatred for the species her kind, her clan had sworn to protect. More than that she was alone and considering gargoyles lived in clans, surrounded by family, solitude was no easy task. She had long since resigned herself to going throughout eternity alone, but still she longed for the company of another gargoyle. Her mind often wandered to the past, thinking of her mate, Goliath, forever encased in stone sleep. So many times she missed him, his warm embrace, his powerful form, that deep soothing voice. She longed for such companionship again, eternity would be less painful if she weren't alone.

A commotion on the street below drew her attention away from her dark thoughts and back to the present. She turned her eyes to the dark forms directly in front of the cathedral, a group of humans from the looks of it, dragging on of their own kind in chains. It made little difference to her what they were up to, they were only pathetic humans and if one killed another… well, it was one less human in the world. Yet, she couldn't quite drive it from her mind, the way they treated each other. How could Goliath have ever hoped humans would accept gargoyles when they couldn't even accept each other? Out of curiosity and purely because she had nothing better to do, she unfurled her wings and rode the air currents down to a rooftop where she could hear and observe the happenings without notice. It was a group of soldiers she saw dragging a thin male form toward a young man on a formidable black horse. The clanking of the chains around the ensnared male's wrists echoed through the quite streets as he fought against his captors. At first glance, she thought the male to be just another human, but then a pair of wings burst open as the captive fought tooth and nail. She uttered a low growl, her eyes faintly glowing red, as she realized it was one of her own they had in their grasp.

Clopin Trouillefou fought hard against the soldiers, struggling to break free, but, gargoyle form or no, he wasn't strong enough to escape four soldiers or the iron imprisoning his wrists. His deep black eyes met those of Christian Frollo, the illegitimate son of the late Judge Claude Frollo. The boy was in his twenties and had been summoned from Rome where he'd been attending school to take his father's place as Minister of Justice. He was Frollo's only child and sole heir, thus he inherited everything that had once been his father's, to include Clopin. The Gypsy King had been taken by a slave trader when he was twelve and, horrors of horrors, it'd been Frollo who'd bought him, no doubt as a way of getting to Adriel Trouillefou, Clopin's father and Gypsy king at the time. That was fifteen years ago and in all that time, Clopin had affected his escape from his master's clutches countless times. He was captured from time to time, but Frollo never managed to keep him more than a few days. The rebellious nature of the Gypsy's spirit never allowed him to stand for the theft of his freedom, he disobeyed Frollo at every turn. But for all his trouble, Frollo refused to execute the King of the Gypsies, after all death was a release not a punishment.

Christian Frollo was entirely familiar with the antics of his father's slave so nothing the Gypsy did came as a surprise to him. His father had made sure to teach him how to handle the heathen and what punishments were suitable. Many times he wondered why his father did not simply dispose of him and have done with it, but he came to understand as he grew older. Trouillefou was a proud man, not one to be dealt with lightly, and it was a tremendous blow to such pride to call another man "master," no matter how hard he fought. The knowledge that he was held in such bondage humbled and humiliated him, it was to the Rom's greatest shame that he was owned, no better than livestock to be traded and sold as his master saw fit. No doubt Christian's predecessor felt that as the so-called Gypsy King, Trouillefou had his uses, the location to the Court of Miracles for example. Christian was hardly surprised by the sheer loathing in those bottomless black eyes, the defiant scowl on his face as Clopin was forced to his knees before the brutish black horse the boy sat astride.

"Tsk tsk tsk," Christian clucked, wagging his finger as he did so, "Not quite so clever as we thought, now are we, Gypsy?"

"Consider it a test run," Clopin sneered, practically growling the words.

"You realize you will pay dearly," his master said as he dismounted, "For such insolence."

"So what else is new?" the Gypsy King quipped.

Christian removed a whip from his belt, ordering his men to strip the man from the waist up.

Demona watched as the male gargoyle was stripped of his tunic, wincing in sympathetic pain as the whip cracked in the air as it came in contact with the captive's flesh. But the male made not a sound as lash after lash left their mark on his back, nothing to show his own pain save for a jerk of his body and the grimace on his face. He bore what must have been sheer agony bravely, not once crying out even as the coppery smell of his blood filled the air. Just as he was barely able to hold his upper body up any longer, the young human signaled an end to the beating, ordering his prisoner brought to a place he called the Palace of Justice. Swiftly and silently, Demona followed, determined to free the poor creature from the clutches of the humans. Though she admired his tolerance for pain, she couldn't help wondering why he allowed it, why he didn't simply free himself. He was gargoyle, he was stronger than those pitiful beings, he should've been able to fight them off with ease if only long enough to escape. He should simply have killed them than suffer them to treat him like some rabid beast, like they were his superiors.

Clopin uttered not a sound, offered no struggle, as the guards through him roughly into a cell once they'd arrived at the Palace of Justice. He'd seldom ever given Frollo the satisfaction of his pain, he certainly wouldn't give that brat any, but he lacked the strength to fight as he was tossed inside the prison like some rag heap. But now that the soldiers and Christian had left, he let out a soft moan, placing his hand gingerly on the wounds over his shoulder. He'd long ago learned to give no voice to his pain, to allow his mind to roam so as to minimize the pain he consciously felt. But once he focused his concentration on his fresh wounds, the pain came full force and he wondered he could bear it as did anyone else who'd ever seen the multitude of scars crisscrossing his back. He closed his eyes, trying to choke back the tears of pain that threatened, trying not to think too much on how he hurt. However, a sound put him on alert, his eyes snapping open and his bowed head lifting; it had sounded like claws clicking against the pavement. He glanced out the barred window, level with the street outside, and saw a form standing outside. The figure knelt down and, though the shadows of the night still distorted specific features, he could see it was female with what seemed to be bluish flesh. He back away slightly, issuing a warning growl, but she simply raised a clawed finger to reddish lips to quiet him.

"Let me help you," she said, keeping her voice low.

Not one to take anything at face value, Clopin was instantly suspicious; as a Gypsy, he never trusted anyone that was not of Romany blood. Truth be told, he didn't trust anyone, but he put more trust into his own people than outsiders and he wasn't about to accept help without knowing the price.

"And why would you," he began, quirking a curving black eyebrow, "help me, a complete stranger?"

"You fool," she retorted, "do you not accept help when it is so readily offered?"

"Not without knowing the price," he returned.

"Do you not realize," she snarled, trying to keep her temper in check, "I am offering you aid?"

"I am no fool," he answered, "likewise, I know that only seldom is anything offered for nothing."

"Do you want my help or not?!"

"I would indeed very much like to free of this place, _but_, if I may ask," he paused, taking a breath, "how would you propose getting me out?"

A smirk came across those blood red lips, a malicious gleam in her eyes as she prepared to answer that question. She grasped two of the bars tightly and pulled them apart, bending the worn metal and leaving a wide enough space for his slim body to get through.

"Now come," she uttered, reaching her hand out to clasp his own, "We must hurry."

She helped him climb through the opening she'd made, help he was grateful for considering how much pain his back was in and the blood he'd lost. He stumbled a bit as he climbed onto the street, the female tightening her grasp on his arm to steady him before leading the way to a dark side street so as not to be seen.

"Can you make it?" she asked him.

"Make it where?" he returned.

"To the cathedral," she answered, "Have you enough strength to get that far?"

Clopin nodded, relieved that she intended to bring him to a place as familiar and safe as Notre Dame cathedral. He'd taken refuge within its walls countless times since childhood, it was as familiar to him as the Court of Miracles. His strength was dwindling, but with the thought of the comfort and warmth of the church to keep him going, he had faith that he'd make it that far. It wasn't home, but at least within its walls no one could touch him and he was safe.


	2. Reflections

-1Clopin had no recollection of how long it had taken them nor exactly how they'd gotten to Notre Dame. All he was aware of was that at some point they'd taken to the rooftops and somehow, they'd reached the sanctity of the church. The female had helped him up to the passage between the north and south towers, from there Clopin made his way to the areas Quasimodo inhabited. The bell ringer wasn't there nor was the Gypsy expecting him to be there, seeing as Esmeralda had persuaded her friend to leave the tower and make his home in the Court among the Gypsies. This was one of the few times Clopin was grateful for it; Quasimodo was unaware of the Gypsy King's alternate form. His half-brother, a man by the name Cassim, had placed a curse upon him when Clopin was still barely a teenager. Cassim held ten years seniority over Clopin, the son of an Islamic Gypsy who'd been executed before he and their mother, Gisele, married. The child was raised and cared for by Adriel Trouillefou after marrying Gisele when he was barely a year. But as Cassim was not Adriel's child by birth, he would never become King of the Gypsies, a fact which led to Cassim's animosity and the curse being placed upon Clopin. Though Clopin had a twin who'd beend born before him and a brother that was eight or nine years older, Cassim had foreseen that it was Clopin who would take his father's place.

Wearily, Clopin rested himself on the makeshift bed where Esmeralda had laid Phoebus only two months prior. He lit the candle that stood nearby; he had to hand it to Quasimodo, the boy was always prepared and had everything he may ever need on hand up here. He leaned his sore back against the wall and lifted a shaking hand to eye level to ascertain that his body was indeed shaking and it wasn't just his imagination. He let his hand fall to his side as he tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he prepared to give himself over to blessed unconsciousness. His silent savior watched him from the shadows; she'd followed him silently as he'd made his way to this area, making it apparent that he was familiar with this place. He was only a few inches taller than she was, nowhere near as powerfully built as Goliath, but he was a pleasing sight. By male standards, he was short, but his body was long and lean, if exceedingly thin, almost making it seem as though he should be taller. His skin was a pale icy blue, his talons and tail tipped with black, his wing structure similar to her own.

The three fingers at the top of them were black-tipped as was the spur at the bend, the inner wing white while the outer was red as blood. His black hair hung almost to his shoulders, brushed back to reveal his widow's peak. His face was long and thin, his slender jaw ending in a short black goatee, his long pointed nose complimented his looks rather than detracting from them. Thick, curving black eyebrows, an odd feature on a gargoyle, arched above those round bottomless eyes that were as dark as his hair. A single gold hoop, larger than the ones she wore, dangled from his left ear. She wondered if he had a clan, though she doubted given that no one had come to his aid save her and if he had a clan they wouldn't have simply abandoned him. Perhaps their meeting would be beneficial for them both, perhaps Fate was finally showing her some kindness in leading her to him.

Clopin half-opened one of his eyes to gaze at the female gargoyle, seeing her eyes fixated on him. In the dim light of the candle he could see the emerald green color of her eyes, the gleam of her arm band and bracelet, the earrings in her ears and her headpiece. Her wild hair was a deep vibrant red, her skin a darker blue than his own, her inner wing purple while the outer was a darker shade. She was a sight to behold, flawless in her beauty, her body lithe and athletic, the form of a warrior. He knew a thing or two about gargoyles, but knowledge of them was sparse seeing as they were passed off as legend and few were known to exist. He remembered hearing once that gargoyles didn't give themselves names as humans did, calling each other simply "friend."

"Do you have a name?" he asked, knowing it was stupid question but asking nonetheless.

She gave a slight jump, not having realized that he was still conscious, certainly not expecting him to speak.

"I am called," she replied, "Demona."

"Demona," he repeated it, pondering over the purpose of such a formidable name.

"What of yourself?" she queried.

"Huh?" he muttered.

"Have you name for yourself?"

He bowed his head, "My name is Clopin… Clopin Trouillefou."

A small smile came across her face as she savored the sound of his name, soft and almost seductive just as the language of this country. His partially opened lid slowly closed over his eye, his head tilting onto his shoulder as he finally gave himself over to sleep.

The soft clink of gold bangles echoed through the quiet bell tower as Esmeralda made her way up the stairs, the clicking of cloven hooves behind her as her loyal goat followed. Her friend and king hadn't come home last night and knowing that the bell tower was a favored haunt of his whenever he didn't want to be found, this was first she chose to look. Chances were that Clopin had been taken, finally captured by his new master, but knowing him, he'd escaped within a matter of hours and sought refuge up here. She'd known the man her entire life and as one of her oldest and dearest friends, she knew him all too well, especially since they'd been romantically involved for the last three or four years. Quasimodo had been with her, but had stopped to talk with the Archdeacon, leaving her to find her friend by herself with only Djali for help. She quietly made her way through the still bell tower, making her way to the area where Quasimodo had slept, the same bed she'd helped Phoebus to when he'd been hurt. And there he was, his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed with one leg bent to his chest while the other laid straight on the floor. He seemed peaceful, a total antithesis to his boundless energy when he was awake, his mouth partially open as his thin chest rose and feel with his breathing. She paused, resting her hands and forehead against the wooden beam nearby, as Djali went over to the unconscious Gypsy and gently licked the tan hand that rested on the floor.

Clopin gave a light moan at the contact, but remained asleep; it was times like this Esmeralda couldn't help but remember why she'd fallen for him in the first place. Ever since she'd turned sixteen, the two had been on and off until a few years ago and had in fact been due to marry after the festivities of the Feast of Fools had died down January 6th. Then came Phoebus and she'd fallen in love with the blonde captain from the moment she'd set eyes on him, all thoughts of her fiancé fleeing her mind. With everything that followed the activity, their wedding had been postponed until Esmeralda professed her love for the Captain of the Guard. Clopin had graciously stepped back and allowed her to pursue her heart's desire, wanting nothing more than her happiness be it with him or Phoebus. His selflessness never ceased to amaze her, he was forever putting his people before himself, a task many would find impossible. She could hardly fathom how hard it must have been for Clopin to see her with someone else, but he acted fine with it even to the point of laughing it off. Just like him to make a joke to hide any pain he felt, to lighten the situation and not make it seem like a big deal. Such was his defense mechanism to make a joke of everything because if things seemed less serious he didn't have to face the harshness of reality.

The King of the Gypsies was indeed a handsome man, despite the childish insults that had once been thrown at him. His peers had often poked fun at his long nose, calling him names like "beaky" or bird-face" despite the fact that he was a prince of the Court. He'd grown into his looks, though, and ever since had been a favorite of the ladies, Gypsy and non alike, which had made it difficult for the man to settle down. These were Esmeralda's favorite moments, these times when Clopin slept and was absolutely still instead of bouncing around everywhere. She'd lost count of how many times she'd buried her hands in that thick black hair, her olive skin dark against his own tan flesh as he brought her to ecstasy. Her emerald eyes roved over his half-naked form, his lightly muscled torso and that little belly of his that she swore was the only fat on his scrawny frame. She smiled softly with a shake of her head; countless times she'd poked fun at it while he flushed and indignantly sputtered, trying to find a way to defend himself. It was the only place guaranteed to make him squirm, one of his most ticklish places and she'd never tired of poking his stomach. She loved him, even now, but her love for him had paled in comparison to how passionately she felt for her blonde Captain. Hot as Clopin had always made her feel, it wasn't the same hotness she felt whenever Phoebus looked at her in just such a way.

Clopin awoke to the feel of a soft hand on his cheek, a soft melodic voice saying his name and the soft clinking of bracelets. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew who it was that was trying to wake him, he'd know her voice, her touch, anywhere: Esmeralda. His eyes slowly fluttered open to find the soft features of his friend's face just inches from his, so close that he only had to tilt his head forward a small bit to kiss her soft lips. But much as he would've liked to, he didn't dare; she belonged to someone else now, a concept he was still trying to drill into his stubborn heart and mind. Far too often he had to mentally kick himself and remind himself that she was no longer his own, a fact that still brought a pain to his heart. Nonetheless, he smiled every time he saw her in an effort to hide that pain from her discerning eyes. She alone could always see through him, knew how to read him, knew when he was lying though he'd mastered the art of deception years ago. A mere four years separated them though Esmeralda never tired of telling him how much older his goatee made him look.

A sleepy spread across those familiar lips, revealing the gap between Clopin's front teeth and canines on either side. Esmeralda was concerned when she saw the crimson stains on the bedding her friend rested on, but his smile came as a relief. He wasn't so badly hurt that he was anything but himself and there was no sign of the pain he must've been in.

"Hey," he muttered.

"Hey," she returned his smile, "you OK?"

"A few scratches," he assured her, "Nothing more."

It was a lie and she knew it; his punishment for such disobedience had to have been severe if he hadn't made it home last night as it always was. And the fact that Frollo's heir was new and no doubt trying to establish dominance and superiority couldn't have made it any easier. He bore his pain without complaint, hiding it under a mask of sarcasm and nonchalance just as he did everything else. He wasn't stoic in that he didn't show any emotion, he had his own brand of stoicism, one that showed as sarcasm, witty retorts, bad jokes, and a distinct lack of any real concern. Unlike most men, he didn't hide behind that mask because of some macho thing, he did it because he didn't want his people worrying over him. He'd always say that it was his job to worry about them, that it wasn't their responsibility to worry about him. They had their own worries and concerns, they had their own lives; his people were his life and his concern.


End file.
